


consolation

by knowyourwayinthedark



Series: the ones where there's selfcest and titles that start with "c" [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grinding, M/M, Porn Without Plot, Repression, Sad Without Plot, Scar Kissing, Self-cest, Shame, a lot of sad, if selfcest prompts are my new kryptonite i'm gonna scream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:45:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Foxy, self-confident Jackman!Valjean meets repressed, self-depreciating brick!Valjean and does him the kindness of giving him a good seeing-to and telling him he deserves nice things. (Also, for once Valjean doesn't have to worry about identity issues)"</p><p>as it turns out two valjeans is like two hundred times the sad i had to go lie down after writing this</p>
            </blockquote>





	consolation

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think this is in the same universe as that other selfcest fic with the two Javerts??? I don't even know when or where this is. I didn't even try to make a setup at this point. Totally plotless. Yeah. I have no idea. This was super lazy. I'm sorry
> 
> but hey CONGRATULATIONS ME there's no Javert in this whatsoever perhaps my Javert problem is somewhat over (he says, working on like five separate things that have Javerts by the dozen)

He presses a kiss to every scar, and knows the story behind each one.

The other Valjean underneath him twists as though the marks of lash and brand were still raw and bleeding, as though he reopens the wounds with each touch. He goes over them with kisses a second time, perhaps in an effort to close them again. And indeed, the man settles down, his movements growing slower, and sighs into the covers when Valjean finishes with lips brushing his scarred wrist.

But he tenses when Valjean lays down beside him and tries to reach his face, to kiss him, to kiss the brow wearied by weights of duty and fear and shame. “No,” he mumbles into the pillow, clenching his fists alongside his head like barricades and turning away, “no –”

So Valjean rises and straddles the other man’s hips, and rubs and kisses the muscles of his shoulders and neck, the places where like Atlas he has borne a thousand physical weights, the strength that reveals him at last. He squirms at first, again, but once more his movements grow gentler; eventually, against Valjean’s mouth, under the scars, under the skin, there are ripples, slow and steady, for the movements have become – no longer the writhing of a man overwhelmed but – the other Valjean is moving like a wave, sliding his hips against the bed, tiny motions, perhaps not even conscious of what he is doing, eyes shut and lips parted. His face is not wholly slack with pleasure, from what little Valjean can see, but it is – close.

He should find it more bizarre, what he is doing, but it only seems to make sense, that by touch and tenderness he might bring another some peace. Whether this other is himself or not does not seem to matter. Their shared solitude only makes this easier. They have both gone their lives not knowing any touch but their own. This is just a continuation.

Valjean is hard, tight against his trousers; unlike the other, who is without a shirt, he is still fully dressed. There is another roll of the man’s hips against the mattress and this time it is stronger and Valjean can feel it too, the achingly slow slide against his clothed cock the first stimulation he has had this whole time. It presses a gasp from him.

The movements still and the muscles in the other man’s back tense. Valjean kisses his shoulderblade, hurriedly.

“It is all right,” he murmurs into the other Valjean’s back. A lump rises in his throat. He kisses his back again, and again, rubs his hands in circles, runs them down the other man’s sides. “It is all right,” he repeats, “you deserve this,” and there is a horrible sob from below.

“You do not need to deny yourself, not now.” Another shaky breath is the only response but the other man begins to move again, hands clenched in the covers, body flexing as he grinds his pelvis down; his head turns and Valjean can see that what little relaxation was in his face before is gone now. The pleasure is now painted over with an agonized concentration, and such shame that it hurts Valjean to see it. The comfort he can give can never be quite enough, and it hurts even more to know it so keenly, to know every reason why he cannot wholly soothe this pain.

Still he might try – he bends and kisses open-mouthed this time, sucks at the nape of the other Valjean’s neck, marks him lightly with his teeth; he hears another gasp but it does not come from a throat as tight with tears as before. It is almost a moan. He does the same thing to the meeting place of neck and shoulder, the hard muscle there, and when that produces a louder gasp, and a buck of the hips, he cannot help but rock against the motion. His cock is so swollen and sensitive that the drag of cloth against it almost makes him come, then and there. But he will restrain himself. His need is unimportant. What matters is the man who cannot look him in the eye, who is still afraid of indulging in his desires even with one who already knows them all.

Valjean rubs a hand along the other man’s ribs. “Will you turn over?”

Again, the movements freeze. “No.”

Valjean straightens up and places a hand behind him, rubbing it over the curve of the other man’s ass; he feels him shiver. “Why not?”

“I do not want to look.” The white head presses further into the pillow; Valjean cannot see his face anymore. He sighs.

Rising, he slides back, enough so that he can better tug down the other man’s trousers and press his fingers between his legs – the bed creaks when the other Valjean squirms, then again when he groans and seems to want to dig himself into the mattress with his entire body, clawing at the sheets. To see him come apart like this – he watches the other Valjean begin to grind against the bed again, imagines the way the linen would feel on his long-untouched cock, presses his hand against the fork of his trousers in sympathy.

Now the other man is rutting outright, jerkily and accompanied by louder noises, a gasp as he pushes back against Valjean’s fingers, a choked moan when his hips jolt forward again. Now he says something into the pillow, unintelligible; Valjean leans forward, supporting himself on one hand and slowing the motions of the other. “What is it?”

“It is too much.” He turns his head so now Valjean can see how he is on the verge of tears, though his eyes are still squeezed shut. “I have not bared myself to – anyone. And I still –” He cuts off, but Valjean understands his meaning.

“Who are you?” he asks.

The bed creaks again with each shake of the other man’s head. “I don’t –”

“Everything is fine.” He begins to move his fingers again. “You may speak. You are safe here. Say what you have kept, these years. Say –” He presses, deeper. “Say your name.”

“Jean Valjean,” and the tide is loose. “I am Jean Valjean. I was a tree-pruner, I tried to feed my sister’s children – Jeanne, where is she – I served my time, I lived in hell, I broke parole, I tried to do right, I am not Fauchelevent and I am not Fabre, I am Jean Valjean –” He shudders and arches his back as Valjean kisses his shoulder again, and then, suddenly, rises to his hands and knees, dislodging Valjean.

He thinks he understands. “Do you –” When his hand reaches around and closes on the other Valjean’s cock he can tell the other man must be very close; the skin over the head is tight like a drum, it is so swollen, and wetness seeps from it and slicks his hand.

“You are Jean Valjean,” he says, and strokes, and mouths at scarred skin again. He does not say: and so am I. All the man before him needs is to hear another person affirm his truth, his name, his past. His own name is irrelevant. He strokes again, and again – “Please,” comes a murmur suddenly, “if you would –”

He frees himself from his clothes quickly and presses inside, the other Valjean’s body tight and hot around his cock, and he hears an inhuman noise. “More, more, please –”

The scars glisten in the light with sweat and where Valjean has licked them, sucked them; he is suddenly very conscious of the identical patterning on his back, still hidden under his shirt. He bends and nuzzles at them, runs his tongue along their ridges again. “I know you,” he says. The other man almost violently pushes back against his thrusts, jerks forward into the clutch of his hand. “Jean Valjean –”

The cock in his hand spasms and suddenly the other Valjean is coming with a moan, arms shaking, then collapsing, burying his head in the pillow again.

Valjean lets go of the man’s cock and rests his forehead against the back of his neck, slowing his movements, though he has still not yet spilled.

Then a hand grasps his, and he starts in surprise. “I know who you are,” he hears, barely audible, muffled by the covers. “You are Jean Valjean.” His hips rock back against Valjean’s; on the edge already, Valjean lasts only a few moments more before he spends.

 

He is surprised once again upon pulling out, as the other Valjean rolls onto his back, wearing a fiercely determined expression, and tugs him down in an awkward embrace. Their legs tangle. Valjean kisses the other’s brow this time, feels tentative fingers rubbing at his sideburns; he chuckles against the furrowed forehead and hears a startled huff of what could be laughter in return.

When his shirt is unbuttoned and a hand works its way into it, around to his back, to sweep across the scars there in long strokes, he does not fight it, only shifts closer to the other man and presses his nose into sweet-smelling hair as fingers trace and caress. He feels the other man’s ribs bell out against him with each breath, feels the weight of his eyes on him, and tries to express gratitude with further kisses, peppered along temple and jawline and throat.

“Jean Valjean,” he mumbles into warm skin. “Valjean –”

“Yes.” And there is a hand cradling his head. “You are Jean. And thank you.” And the uncertain brush of lips against the crown of his head is all the thanks in the world.


End file.
